


It's Not Long Till Christmas, But It'd Be Better If You Were Here.

by HamishHolmes



Series: 2014 Christmas A - Zs [5]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:04:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2703101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamishHolmes/pseuds/HamishHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a Christmas A - Z based on Chekov and Sulu's relationship. Each chapter will be based on a word prompt and be set in a different AU. It'll update daily until the 25th when I'll give you two for the price of none! Isn't that fantastic?! </p><p>Other Relationships / characters will be added as they appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ACHE

Pavel Chekov gave the table a final wipe and threw the cloth back behind the counter.

“I’m off,” he called to his boss, putting on his jacket and scarf. 

“Thank you, Mr Chekov,” came the man’s awkward reply.

“Have a nice Christmas.”

“You too, Spock,” called Chekov, opening the door and stepping out into the cold December air.

His breath fell in clouds as he walked along the street, hands thrust deep into his pockets and shoulders hunched up. The bright lights of the coffee house faded away until it was a mere twinkle in his memory to keep him warm. He turned down a side street and wove his way between rows of pristine houses, towards his own home.

The block of flats towered above him in the dark, standing sentinel at the edge of the city. As we neared, he saw the familiar flaking paint on the door frames and the collection of bottles that never seemed to make it to the bin. He knelt to lift them and carried them over to the large plastic box. Dumping them there, he extracted his keys from a deep pocket and opened the door.

There was no rush of warm air as he entered which told him the heating was off again and most likely the power too. He sighed and shut the door behind him, hearing the metal click of the lock like the tolling of a bell.

He jogged up the stairs, passing Mr Brogan from number 11 passed out and smelling of tequila. Chekov rolled him onto his side and carried on up, blocking out the horrific smells that colonised the stairwell.

He made it to the corridor where he found a small child wandering the hallway with a bottle top in hand. He slipped the lid out of her hand and then Chekov lifted her up with a small grunt and a muttered Russian curse and carried her over to the door, from behind which could be heard shouting and wailing. He knocked loudly and then pushed open the door that was never locked. 

“Hello!” he called through the door, “Mrs Oka? Mia was in the hallway.”

“Thank you, Chekov, you are a good man,” she said with a smile, “what do you say Mia?”

“Thank you, Mr Chekov,” said the little girl as he put her down.

“You are more than welcome, Mia,” smiled Chekov, merely glad to help.

“Will you stay for dinner?” asked Mrs Oka, neatly plucking a tin opener from the hands of a four-year-old boy and waving to her eldest (of those still living at home) who had just arrived through the door behind Chekov.

“No, thank you,” said Chekov, knowing that she didn’t really have enough food to share, “I have a microwave dinner for one waiting at home.”

“Well, thank you again,” she said, handing a bawling infant they toy that it had lost, “and merry Christmas, Pavel.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Mrs Oka,” Chekov smiled, “and merry Christmas to you, children.”

There was a smattering of merry-Christmases and a couple of thank-yous in reply. 

Chekov turned and left, making sure to shut the door fully on the way out.

Up another flight of stairs and he found himself at his front door.

Inside, we took off his uniform and slipped into pyjamas and a large woolly Christmas jumper that his Babushka had knitted for him many years ago. He put a meal for one into the microwave, and luckily the power had not gone off with the gas, so his ancient microwave rattled into life.

When the machine gave a forlorn ding, Chekov pulled open the door and removed the chicken curry (courtesy of Aldi) and sat down on the sofa, tucking his legs underneath a threadbare blanket.

He ate his way through the curry and then a banana, which he wasn’t sure that it was still safe to eat. Then he pulled the blanket up to his chest and pulled out a decrepit old copy of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and began to read, humming old Russian tunes softly as he did.

Eventually, he became too tired to read and laid the book down on the floor. Pulling his blanket around him like a cloak, he padded through to his bedroom and collapsed on the bed, tugging the thick duvet around himself.  
In the dark, he could hear his own breathing and as he lay there he began to think. This was not uncommon for Chekov; when he was a child in Russia they had given him mathematical textbooks at his school, but he had been bored with them, so they sent him textbooks from the university and he finished them too. They had let him take the exams at the end of the year, at the same time as the other university students. He finished with a first class degree in mathematics. He had been ten at the time.

 _Now,_ his inner self retorted bitterly, _only seven years later, I’m serving coffee to dumb Americans in cheap suits._

He squashed that thought as he had squashed the pain that he had felt when he had been called names and told that there was no way that a 17-year-old had a first class degree and even if he had got one, Russian qualifications were worth nothing here.

Turns out America wasn’t as good as everyone said. There was only one light in this tunnel and it came from his friend Hikaru Sulu who also worked for Mr Spock.

Chekov’s thoughts of Hikaru brought him back to the present. Tomorrow morning, he would do what he always do what he always did on Christmas day; he would wake early to go and make sure that Mr Brogan was still alive and give him painkillers and help him to bed. He’d buzz in Mrs Peveril’s family when she didn’t hear the doorbell and help her into her coat so that she could go to her son’s house for Christmas. He’d knock on Mr Dougherty’s door and when there was no answer, he’d push open the door, call the ambulance and flush the rest of his stash away. He’d come across to his apartment and get the bag of presents from his cupboard and take them round to Mrs Oka’s for the children.

He’d go outside and repaint the door and door frame. Then he’d make his way up the building, knocking on doors and asking if any jobs needed doing. He’d fix taps and doors, build IKEA furniture and clean kitchens.

It wasn’t so bad, he reflected. It was nice to help out because everyone seemed genuinely happy when he helped and he knew it made a big difference to their lives. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what Christmas at Sulu’s house would be like.

Surely, they would wake early, but not to sort out hangovers or drug addicts. Sulu’s cousins would wake the house with their excitement over Santa’s visit. The household would wrap themselves in big, warm dressing gowns and they’d sit around the living room, opening presents and sharing jokes. Sulu would sit very close to Chekov and they’d give joint gifts to his family. Sulu’s mum would cook a fantastic roast and then they’d play charades or watch a movie and chat until bedtime.

As Chekov drifted into sleep, his dreams about Sulu’s Christmas became more vivid and outlandish until Sulu had bought him China for Christmas and the roast was eleven courses long.

Waking up in a cold, empty apartment had never been more disappointing.


	2. BREATHING

Hikaru Sulu was laughing in his chair in the quarters that he shared with Pavel Chekov. He was reading on this PADD, but his focus was elsewhere; Pavel hadn’t come in yet, even though their shift had ended together. Just as he resigned himself to standing to go and find him, the door hissed open to reveal Pavel, looking rather small and tired.

“Pasha?” said Hikaru, standing, a worried look plastered across his face.

“Hikaru, please sit; I have news,” said Pavel, accent as thick as Hikaru had ever heard it.

Hikaru sat on the bed and Pavel came over, standing in front of him.

“I was talking to Doctor McCoy and he gave me some big news,” said Pavel, stretching out the pause until Hikaru thought he would have to break it, “I’m pregnant.”

He looked down and away, not meeting Hikaru’s eyes. Pavel didn’t want to see the pain and betrayal in Hikaru’s eyes. He should have been more careful; he should have made sure that Hikaru wore a condom. Biological impossibilities (or improbabilities as he supposed he should think of them now) aside, he should have been more careful. He loved Sulu with all his heart and now he had hurt him.

“Pasha, look at me,” said Hikaru.

Pavel’s eyes flicked up to meet Sulu’s and then darted away again.

“Alright,” said Hikaru, “if you want to raise our child without looking at me, let alone talking to me, it’ll be an interesting experiment on child language acquisition.”

This time, Pavel’s eyes met Sulu’s and held.

“What?!” His voice was as shocked as his facial expression and Sulu would have laughed if it wasn’t such a serious moment.

“I love you,” he said, “and I’m going to love this little baby so much. And I will never stop loving either of you.

Chekov smiled, maybe things were going to be okay.

 

Okay. That wasn’t the word Chekov was using now, about nine months later. His gut felt like it was on fire and only the cool pressure of Dr McCoy’s hand on his abdomen and the warm grip of Sulu’s hand in his were keeping him tethered to the conscious world. 

“Breathe, Pasha,” said Sulu.

“I am breathing,” said Pavel.

“Dr McCoy, what’s happening?” said Sulu, “is labour usually this painful.”

“Usually, yes,” said Dr McCoy, “but Chekov’s pain is a different type of pain, due to the biological impossibilities of his pregnancy.”

“What?” growled Chekov.

“Your bowels are trying to rearrange to give you a birth canal.”

“What happens next Dr McCoy?”

“We have two options. One, I don’t operate and we see if Chekov’s system can sort it out. Two, I perform a caesarean section without knowing exactly where the womb is.”

“Can’t you get someone to help?” asked Sulu, as Chekov yelled another string of Russian curses into the air.

“Oh yes, I’ll just call one of my medical buddies and say, ‘Yeah, I’ve got a dodgy pregnancy. What’s dodgy about it, you ask? There’s no womb or birth canal,” Dr McCoy pulled a face, “I’d never live it down.”

“Well, what are the odds of him surviving if you operate?”

“95% chance of survival.”

“That’s not good enough,” yelled Sulu.

“You’ll never get 100%chance of survival.”

Chekov’s voice sounded strangled, yet certain.

“What?”

“Doctor, what are my chances if you don’t operate?”

“5% chance of survival or less.”

“See, Hikaru, you’ve got to let him operate.”

“Okay, I’m staying,” said Sulu.

“No. Seeing the inside of someone you love is never easy.”

Sulu recalled all the times that Bones had had to operate on Jim and the tears it inevitably produced and decided to take his advice.

By the time he got back, McCoy had started the operation and so Sulu was left pacing in the hallway outside.

Eventually a nurse came out.

“You can go in n –”

He was cut off as Sulu rushed past and found Chekov on the bed , grin splitting his face, a crying baby in his arms.

“Hikaru, meet your little boy.”

“Our little boy,” corrected Sulu, sitting on the bed next to him and kissing him on the forehead.

“What shall we call him?”

“I was thinking Freddie Leonard Sulu.”

Sulu had never been so happy in all his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, due to illness and deadlines, I have fallen behind (in the first three days!) but I plan to catch up at the weekend, if not before. Please bear with me.


End file.
